


Point Counterpoint

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel saw that Jack knew. Everything. Somehow. Of course he did. Of course Jack would know this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point Counterpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the prompt: flashbacks.

The tip of the knife was red hot and sharp. And the bastard knew exactly how to use it. First, he sliced, with long, angled strokes, then he stabbed, with short jabs that pierced shallow nicks in his chest. Enough to wound, never enough to kill. Then, he placed the blade to his throat and held it there. The man’s hand was firm on the handle, unmoving, tendons taut, making him believe that any second he could flick his wrist and slit the skin down to the bone.  
  
And then his tormentor would leave, allowing Daniel to replay it over and over in his head. Making the fear of the next time all the greater. He was also pumped full of drugs that brought with them paranoia and exacerbated his terror. Then, a couple of hours later, it would all start again. For three, long, lonely, terrifying days.  
  
SG-8 were dead. They died under torture, although Daniel didn’t see it. But he heard it, and that was probably worse.  
  
He was alone and he was so fucking scared.  
  
After rescue, after Jack had shot Daniel’s captors first and never bothered to ask questions, after he shielded Daniel from the others while Daniel shook and puked and touched Jack again and again because he needed to know he was real and not the image he’d conjured up time and time again to get him through it, Daniel slept in the infirmary. The first time he woke, he thought Jack was the guy who had tortured him. He fought and screamed until his throat was raw, until Jack pushed away the nurses and climbed on the bed and wrapped his arms and legs round him in a vise that calmed him. “Remember this. Remember how I hold you safe,” Jack whispered. And Daniel did. He closed his eyes and remembered Jack’s arms, strong but loving, holding him through the aftershocks of orgasm, clutching him against the reassuring thud of his heartbeat.  
  
The second time he woke, Daniel thought Janet was coming at him with the knife and swore at her, aiming punches that came nowhere near. Jack caught his clenched fist, and Daniel stared at it, choking, gasping, so sure it held the blade that cut and hurt.  
  
Jack held the fist, prized open Daniel’s fingers slowly, meeting his shaking hand strength for strength, then threaded his fingers through Daniel’s. “Remember this,” he whispered, mouth brushing Daniel’s ear. And Daniel did. He closed his eyes. He remembered how they twined fingers when they couldn’t get close enough as they fucked and loved, when they wanted to hold on that bit longer, when words weren’t enough and touch was everything.  
  
The third time he woke, he watched Jack’s lips smile tiredly and say, “Hey,” but all he heard was a rough, guttural voice speaking an alien language, the nuances of which he couldn’t grasp quickly enough to prevent the airmen dying or himself being sliced open in ribbons that dripped scarlet pain. He concentrated on Jack’s mouth, watched the lips move as if they could reveal all the secrets of the fucked up universe he loved so much. He tried to blot out the sound of the tormenting voice, so harsh and unforgiving. Deep, angry, hate-filled.  
  
And Daniel saw that Jack knew. Everything. Somehow. Of course he did. Of course Jack would know this. He watched as Jack spoke briefly to a nurse, pulled the privacy curtain round the bed, then sat down and took Daniel’s face in both hands.  
  
“Listen to me, Daniel. To me. My voice. Mine, not his. I fucking love you. So much. Remember my voice, how I tell you I want you and need you. How I say that you rock my fucking world when you smile and when you come for me. Remember that Daniel, hang on to that and to me. Hear me. I love you, baby. And you’re going to get through this and come home. Because I love you.” He spoke softly, evenly.  
  
Jack’s fingers stroked his face and soothed away the feel of the blade on his skin.  
  
Jack’s voice drowned out the ugly sounds of death and his pain.  
  
For now.

 

>>>>>

 

“What can I do, Daniel?” Jack asked softly, so softly, into the twilight darkness of their bedroom.  It was warm and quiet. It was home, and after two weeks in the infirmary, it was an exquisite relief to be here. To be alone and private. “What do you need?”

Daniel lay on his back, the pyjamas he’d pulled from the back of the dresser feeling alien and harsh against his sore skin. He couldn’t sleep naked as he usually did. He didn’t want Jack to see his body. Dumb, considering Jack had been with him through it all. But this was their home. Their refuge. He didn’t want anything of what had happened to encroach here. And yet … here he was, letting it happen. He fucking hated that. He fucking hated himself and his body.

He forced himself to look up into Jack’s face, finding only love there, coupled with a quiet acceptance that Jack couldn’t make this go away, but could perhaps ease some of the horror. Jack’s hand cupped his face, this thumb stroking across his cheekbone, so gently Daniel could weep from the tenderness. And Daniel knew what that tenderness was costing Jack; how it was masking a boiling rage.

_“I still hear them screaming, Jack. I can feel the knife against my throat, smell his breath, I can’t forget how I wanted it to end, how I would have done anything, **anything,** to stop it. How your name became a prayer and a sanctuary. How I failed.”_

Daniel couldn’t speak. He hadn’t been able to speak since they opened the front door and fell, shaking, into each other’s arms in the hallway. So he put trembling fingers to Jack’s lips and was kissed with feather-like brushes, barely there and gone. The gentleness made Daniel shudder and arch and he felt his cock twitch in response. And, oh, that felt so good and right. He was absurdly relieved that he could feel at all. This was what he craved; profound tenderness in direct contrast to the cruel pain. Point counterpoint. Love counterbalancing hate. Where there was evil, there was also good.

He had to believe that. He had to hang on to that for his sanity’s sake.

His dick filled and lengthened as Jack took Daniel’s face in both hands, kissed his eyelids and placed a long, soft kiss on his forehead. Kisses that spoke of possession and safety. Then he looked into Daniel’s eyes, seeking permission, and Daniel nodded slightly.

Jack shifted slowly down his body, pausing as he reached for the buttons on the pyjama jacket. _Can I?_ Daniel’s breath quickened. _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t …_ Each cut that rubbed so painfully against soft cotton was a visceral reminder of his perceived failure, of his weakness.

Jack waited, hand flat and reassuring on his covered chest, until, from somewhere, Daniel found the strength to nod again. Jack undid the buttons slowly, one by one. Daniel swallowed. _Touch me with love. Nothing but love, and save me.  
_

Jack looked at his scars, eyes roving, assessing, burning into this skin until Daniel wanted to flinch from the intensity of it. A muscle clenched in Jack’s jaw. _No, don’t hate, just love. Love me …  
_

Daniel placed his hand on Jack’s head and stroked, loving the feel of the short silky strands beneath his fingers. _Me, think only of me, not him …_ Jack relaxed, visibly taking control of the muscle groups, letting go of the tension moment by moment, releasing the anger. There was no place for anything but love in their bed.

Daniel gasped as Jack placed lingering, warm kisses to every scar and when he felt an unexpected wetness, a sharp sting of salt, in each wound, he closed his eyes and let the healing begin.

And when Jack took him in his mouth and loved him to a wrenching orgasm that made him cry out with the simple joy of it, he found his voice.

“You,” he whispered, as Jack held him and folded him close. “I need you.”

 

ends


End file.
